Assault on the Devil

By William Peirce

Even sleepy coastal towns have their bodies, only this one wound up in the trunk of Samuel Alexander's car.  Why would anyone pick him, a down-and-out private investigator, for a patsy?  And why this particular stiff?  From retired cop to boat bum to collector of corpses, the road to trouble leads through his lackluster past and directly into his '79 Malibu.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Peirce
• Release date: Mar 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201100568

William Peirce

William Peirce is a retired television journalist turned author.  Set in and around Central California, his work draws inspiration from inconic locales as well as stories covered throughout his career.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sun broke early through the summer fog.  It must have been cooler inland today.  That's one thing about Barnet Bay, sitting in its little notch along the California coast. When it warms up inland an almost permanent cloud of gloom hangs over the bay and its namesake city.

Well fog or no fog this looked like the start of a pretty good day.  Chances for a job looked good if I could just get past Mrs. Sloan.  She's been watching this old boat like a hawk for days.  She's been waiting to pounce like a fat old cat after a mouse.  Only Mrs. Sloan is not after mice, she's after me and the Golden Goddess.

People laugh when I tell them the boat's name.  I realize that if you look at her she doesn't much fit the name.  But with a little work and some paint the old schooner could be a dazzler.  38-feet of grace and beauty, that's the Goddess.

Course, she hasn't moved from slip 49 here at Sloan's Marina for years.  I didn't know if the engine would even run.  And it's been a long time since I looked at the sails - they were around her somewhere.  And again, I don't even know if the old girl would clear the sand bar between between the marina here in Barnet State Park and the bay.  That would be a real treat.  We'd make a run for it and get stuck in front of God and everybody.

Well if I could get past the old bag, and If I could get that job, I could pay the three months back rent on the slip and tell the old bat to go to hell.

That's a hell of a note.  Here I was supposed to be an investigator.  Samuel S. Alexander  big time private eye. Glamorous life and all that.  What a laugh!  Even the name was a laugh.  Some aunt once told me I was named after the character in the Dashell Hammett books.  The S stands for Spade.  She told me that my mother read all those Hammett cops & robbers books before I was born.  Of course if I'd been a shoe salesman it ouldn't be quite so funny.

I don't think my name had anything to do with my being an investigator.  It was a logical progression after being a cop once, and then being one of a zillion security consultants at the Devil's Gorge Nuclear Power Plant.  But that was years ago.  I was never any good at that cop stuff. It required too much discipline and keeping a regular schedule.  In other words, it meant punching a time clock.  And it meant spending too much time away from my beloved boat.

So here I am, a genuine private investigator.  Big deal.  I could make more money working at Burger World.  And they only paid minimum wage.  They wouldn't hire me anyway.  Too old.  They couldn't tell me that up front, but what fast food joint would hire a 48-year old, overweight cook.  That'd sell a lot burgers & fries.

Well today, I had a case, almost.  A real honest-to-goodness case.  Well I had a case if I could get to that shyster's office and convince him he needed me to investigate it.  It was only a worker's comp claim but at least it was money.

I slid from the aft companionway hatch of my beloved boat and went over the side, with the dockside steps and their handrail creaking and groaning in protest.  I started up the marina intending to use the gate farthest away from the office and Mrs. Sloan.

Yoo Hoo!  Mr. Alexander wait please!  I need to talk to you.  It's very important.

Sorry, Mrs. Sloan but I'm late for a very important appointment! I yelled across the marina.  I'll check with you later.  But right now I've got this big job I'm working on.  Mustn't keep the client waiting and all that.

I had to get to the chevy before she could head me off at the pass.  At least the chevy was still there.  Come to think of it, the finance company was getting sore too.Mr. Alexander!  This really is very important!  We need to talk!

The old girl got up quite a head of steam when she was under way!  Mrs. Sloan must have been jogging or something.  At least the car wasn't locked.  I could jump in and get it started before the old battleship could fire her broadside at me.

Almost sprinting, I got to the car with time to spare.  Just as I jerked the door open I noticed that nemesis of all getaway artists, the flat tire.

Damn! I'd forgotten about that slow leak.  Oh well, maybe the old girl would just threaten, and not slap a lien on the 'Goddess.Huffing and puffing Mrs. Sloan arrived just about the same time as I opened the trunk of the old blue chevy to begin taking inventory of jack, lug wrench and all the necessary hardware for changing the tire.

I was watching the marina owner as she approached.  As she began to slow down and talk, her eyes bugged out, she looked up at the sky, let out an ear-piercing shriek loud enough to scare all the pelicans off the sand bar, folded up like a large round tent and dropped to the ground.

Old Mr. Sloan, who was not far behind, came rushing on yelling, What have you done to my Ethel!

He too took one look at me, and choked.  Only he didn't scream or pass out.  He just stood there pointing at me and looking goggle-eyed.

What the hell's the matter with you people anyway!  Then I turned and looked in the direction the wavering finger was actually pointing.  There, nestled comfortably in the trunk of the '79 Chevy was a body.  It stared with sightless eyes and the face wore a death mask fit to send the toughest trick-or-treater scrambling in total panic.

My first inclination was to run like hell.  Soon there'd be cops and questions and more cops and more questions and more cops with the same questions.  But what the hell.  There was no point in running, the Sloans knew it was my car.  Everyone in the marina could point to that rusty old bucket of bolts and say Sure that's Sam's car. Facing the realization that I was stuck, I walked the 50 feet over to the dock-side pay phone and punched 911.

The sun was just beginning to set as I walked out of the Barnet Bay Police building.  I'd been in the former store-turned-cop shop for hours and was wrung dry. I'd spent the day being blasted with questions for which there were no answers.  I didn't know the victim.  No, I'd never seen the victim before.  No I didn't owe the victim money.  Sure I owed a lot of people money, but this corpse wasn't one of them.  No, I wasn't working on any cases right now, and no this stiff wasn't part of any case I've worked.  I hadn't worked so many cases that I couldn't remember every one.  No this guy was a stranger.

The cops weren't really satisfied.  The boys in the Dick Bureau just knew that something was hinkey. Alexander must be in this thing up to his eyeballs.  After all, he was a two-bit private eye and everyone knew how sleazy they were.  But so far there was no physical evidence. Not a shred.  Nothing to link the victim to anyone.  They'd lifted prints from the body.  Soon, hopefully, an ID would come back from the FBI's big brother computers somewhere, and they send pictures to other departments in the county. Sooner or later something would turn up.

I walked the three blocks down Harbor View Blvd to the public library and walked through the double door.  I immediately headed for the Reference Section in the left side of the big room. 

Behind a desk a rather slender, almost-middle-aged woman was deeply engrossed in a significant sized volume. She looked about 30, but she was a little older than that.  To me she looked like a librarian, or she could have been a corporate Vice-President.  She was dressed in a business-like brown tweed skirt with a tan blouse.  She was slender, but she wasn't skinny.  She filled that skirt and blouse out like a woman should. 

The librarian was furiously copying notes on a lined tablet.  Her reading glasses had slid down almost to the tip of her nose and her blond hair was slightly mussed, showing that she'd put in a long day.  She didn't see me as I approached.

Hi, beautiful.  What do you say we go back behind those stacks of worthless books and act like a couple of teenagers.

Without raising her head the woman said, Don't be silly, Sam.  Hang around until we close and then you can buy me a steak.  You did get that job didn't you?

No, Baby.  I got kinda hung up at the marina today and believe me it's kept me busy.  I didn't even think about that shyster and his two-bit whiplash case.

Oh Sam, I heard about the murder over in the park today.  But they're not releasing any details.  Is it someone we know?  How'd it happen?  Are you going to be doing any work on it?

Just then a teenager walked up to the desk with his mind full of questions about his term paper.  And librarian Marilyn Smyth had to shelve her questions...at least for the next 20 minutes until she and I could walk down the street to Sad Sacks for dinner.  Naturally, she would pick up the tab.  It was either that or try to cook something at her place.  Cooking was not one of her joys in life.  Actually she was a great cook.  She just didn't like to start preparing a full-blown meal after spending a full day at work.

Some 30 minutes later we were seated at a small table in the rear of Sad Sack's, a saloon and restaurant, the oldest such establishment in the town.  The atmosphere was tough and noisy.  At least tonight there were no fights to overshadow the cowboy music.  But even as the bedraggled combo ground out their western tunes, we ignored the colorful din and in between mouthfuls of steak, I outlined the day.

I just can't figure out why my car ends up with the corpse.  I don't know him.  As far as I know, it can't be revenge.  Hell, I haven't worked enough for that!  I didn't have a chance to go through his pockets with the Sloan's there.  Then the patrol unit arrived so fast I just couldn't do anything but stand there and watch Mrs. Sloan come back to life, with that wimp of a husband of hers hanging on her and accusing me of trying to kill her.

Oh Sam, he was just upset.  Let's go over to my place and see if the late news has any more information.  If nothing else we can get out of this controlled riot so we don't have to yell at each other.  I don't know why you like this place.  It's like visiting a penitentiary.  And the steaks are tough.  I'm not even sure they're beef!

A few blocks South and a couple more East we arrived at her duplex apartment.  It was typical of most rental units in this city.  It had an "L-shaped living room dining room and kitchen.  It had a doorway from the living room which opened into the bedroom, dressing area and bathroom.

Once inside, with the tv on and a beer in my hand, I slouched onto the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. You might as well get comfortable, she called from the little kitchen. You don't have a car so you might as well spend the night.  You can sleep on the couch,she said laughing. God knows you've fallen asleep on it enough times in the six years we've been going together.

I don't sleep.  I just nap.  But the rest of my comments were interrupted by the start of the late news program.

It was a local news cast, the best that Santa Lucita County had to offer.  I noticed that the anchor man looked like his hair helmet had been given a good coating of shoe polish.  But soon the words of the story replaced any thoughts I had of the man's bush league appearance.

A prominent university professor was found murdered in Barnet State Park today.  Police say the body of Dr. Harold Dalrymple was found in the trunk of an old car in the parking lot at Sloan's Marina.  Dr. Dalrymple was a political science instructor at Lucita State University. Authorities say they as yet don't have any leads to suspects in the case.  They say their investigation is continuing. Your TV News team has learned that Dr. Dalrymple was apparently strangled.  And we've learned that robbery has not been ruled out as a motive.  We will, of course, have more details in this bizarre story as they become available.  In other news...

The television screen went blank after I pointed the remote control at it and punched the button.  There was a long pause as neither of us said anything.  The only sound in the room being that of the old clock on the sideboard.  Its tick-tock becoming almost  painfully loud.  At last I broke the silence.

So the victim was Dalrymple.  I wonder why he was murdered.  He had to have done something to have upset someone.  I don't buy that line about robbery being a possible motive.

Why not?

Well first of all, I'll bet he didn't live here in Barnet Bay.  I've never heard of him around here.  'Course that doesn't mean anything.  Second, you don't strangle someone and go find a convenient car to stuff him in just to lift his wallet and credit cards.  Why would the guy be in the state park in the middle of the night anyway?  I guess that's the third point.  Do you have any books or yearbooks or anything like that from Lucita State at the library?

We have a few.  We also have the published works of some of the local scholars.  After all the university is only 12 miles away.

I heaved myself off the couch and began pacing back and forth across the small room.  A nervous energy began to envelope me.  Tomorrow you see what you can dig up on this guy.  I'll try to buttonhole Gene Frederickson and squeeze some information out of him.  Gene should be a veritable encyclopedia of Dalrymple knowledge by then.  He's the city's only criminologist and he should be up on everything.  I going to need your car tomorrow, sweets.

Oh Sam, the last time you borrowed my car it cost me 200 dollars to get it out of the impound yard and another 1500 dollars to get the dents fixed.  Try to be careful this time.

Chapter 2

Morning brought with it a typical summer day; Low clouds and fog.  I had spent a restless night and woke feeling like I needed six more hours of sleep.  After a breakfast of toast and coffee, Marilyn left the apartment, heading for her desk at the library.  I headed for the telephone on the hall table and dialed the familiar number of Barnet's city government.  After talking to two city operators and hearing a half-dozen assorted electronic clicks & chirps, Gene Frederickson came on the line.

Gene?  This is Sam.

Sam who?

"Sam Alexander, and you know who it is.  I need some help.  Can you give me any information about this guy who ended up in the trunk of my car?